


Hands Off!!

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Barbossa's Memories, Blood, Cruelty, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mind the Rating, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 20:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14601201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: Barbossa is just arriving in port and isn't yet available to defend the innkeeper when a man from another ship proves dangerous.  She must then rely on herself for defense, but although she does her best, it isn't enough.==>> Please mind the warning and the rating!  This is a rape-fic, and I make no excuses for it;  if you can't deal with that, please don't read.  It's an ugly, explicit story, but it's one which happened all too often to lone women in the early 18th century, especially in the more lawless port towns.  Barbossa's reaction, though, reveals a great deal about his character:  about the depth of his emotions, about what he's capable of when he seeks revenge after someone he loves is hurt, and about his ability to be understanding and give comfort.





	Hands Off!!

**Author's Note:**

  * For [walkwithursus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/walkwithursus/gifts).



> Freezing is an incredibly common reaction in the face of an assault. You can't think, you can't scream, you can't move, you can't hit back. Those people who ask "Why didn't you run? Why didn't you fight? Why didn't you holler for help?" have never been on the receiving end of a rape, whether attempted or completed, and the terror it causes. May you never find out firsthand what it's like to feel your voice, your strength, and your ability to think and take action desert you… and the innkeeper is no different. Don't ask how I know.
> 
> Out of modesty, women usually bathed while clothed in a chemise or covered by a linen sheet (this can be seen in the movie _Marie Antoinette_ ). The innkeeper has learned not to be modest when she's with Barbossa, but the circumstances here are such that she reverts to her old ways out of shame.
> 
> Barbossa, through constant battle resulting in the inflicting and receiving of wounds, has an intimate knowledge of blood: its color, consistency, and smell. He also, both through experience with working girls, and because he has a woman of his own, knows that blood's properties are much different when it's menstrual (he has a particular liking for the scent of it, which is rich and sweet, unlike the metallic smell of venous or arterial blood). Under normal circumstances, it's just a kink, but in this case, that knowledge is what allows him to make the instant distinction between injury and natural process. 
> 
> What Barbossa remembers from the first year of his merchant marine days was by no means uncommon.
> 
> By this juncture, and after the events of _I Come Before You As But a Servant, Humble and Contrite_ , the innkeeper is barren, but there's no way for either her or Barbossa to be certain of that.

 

 

 

 

-oOo-  


 

 

 

  
  
The innkeeper's back is hurting and she's wondering why she didn't send Cora for the ale and wine instead of giving her the afternoon off.  The girl's strong — stronger than a lot of men — and would have had no trouble handling a loaded wheelbarrow, but,  _No-o-o… I just had to do it myself_ ,  she thinks, annoyed, especially having seen that,  _It looks like the_ Black Pearl _just dropped anchor, but now I may not be home when Hector comes in.  Pity's sake, he'd have understood my being low on drink for an hour or two;  might even have helped me fetch it.  Drat!_  
  
Her irritation is such that she fails to notice a tall, pinch-faced fellow staring at her from the corner of the room.  "Oy,"  he says to the man next to him.  "Who's th' woman wi' th' barrow?  She fer sale?"  
  
He happens to be talking to a local, who shakes his head.  "Nahh.  She runs th' inn up th' hill;  Grantham House, 's called.  Respectable type."  He's too drunk to remember to mention what everyone knows:  that the fearsome Captain Barbossa is her lover and has been for years, so no man dares trifle with her.  He also doesn't know that said Captain is already in a cockboat, halfway to the docks.  
  
The label of 'respectable' piques the tall man's interest.  He can buy any number of whores, but the idea of having a decent woman, whether she wants it or not, is far more exciting.  
  
He tosses back the remainder of his ale, and follows at a distance as the innkeeper struggles up the hill, her wheelbarrow loaded with an ale-cask and a dozen bottles of wine (better wine than she'd normally buy, now that she's seen Barbossa's ship and knows he'll soon appear).  "Bloody hell!"  she mutters, rolling the barrow around the back to the kitchen entrance.  
  
The tall man decides that this is the time to makes his move.  "Eh, pretty,"  he croons, coming up behind her.  
  
The innkeeper goes cold and still as she feels a strange hand on her waist;  drops the barrow's handles and whirls around.  "No!"  she gasps.  "You don't touch me like that!"  
  
"Don't be so unfriendly, pretty,"  the man laughs.  "Looks like you could use a bit of company…"  
  
"My company's on his way up here, and I don't need yours!  Now get off my property!"  
  
He catches her arm as she tries to push past him;  laughs again at the look on her face.  "They tell me you're the respectable sort, eh?  Always wanted me a woman what ain't got her cunt all wore out like a whore…"  
  
For a long, long moment, the innkeeper can't think straight, can't scream, can't cry out, and she's rooted to the spot with shock as the man tightens his grip on her arm, fondling her breasts with his other hand.  No course of action comes to mind until suddenly, she recalls that she's standing at a door that leads into a kitchen full of knives and toasting forks, heavy pots and other dangerous implements.  If she plays this right, she might be able to fight off her attacker;  if not… well, the consequences don't bear thinking about.    
  
_Make up your mind!_  
  
"Oh?  And what make you think a respectable woman wants to do… _that_ outside in front of God and the whole world?"  she asks, hoping her voice isn't shaking.  
  
"I'll do it anywhere, pretty,"  the man snorts,  "but if ye got a nice bed, I'll be happy t' have ye there instead."  
  
_Not in my bed;  mine, and Hector's!  Never!_  
  
"Do you mind?"  the innkeeper says in as snippy a tone as she can manage.  "If you must grope me, please wait until after I've opened the door and gone inside."  _Where's the big knife Hector sharpened for me the last time he was here?  Where's the nearest roasting skewer?  Where's my heaviest cauldron?_  
  
She makes a protracted production of removing her ring of keys from her apron pocket and selecting the proper one, turning it carefully while she thinks of where everything in the kitchen might be.  "Hurry up!"  the man growls.  "I been at sea fer months, I ain't got all day, an' I'd just as soon fuck ye on th' ground as anywhere else!"  
  
_Shite!_   Door open, the innkeeper turns with a poisonously sweet expression on her face and begins to inch inside toward a wicked carving knife, wishing that what she had was one of Barbossa's pistols and the knowledge of how to properly use it.  There are also two skewers lying on the table, and since she doesn't have a sword, they might do very well as substitutes.  "Well?"  she sneers.  
  
"Now that's more like it, pretty…"  
  
The innkeeper grabs her iron stewpot and swings it with all her might, cracking three ribs and knocking the wind out of him, then grabs the carving knife in one hand and a skewer in the other.  "You get out of my house!"  she shrieks.  "Get out, and don't you go bragging how you touched me unless you want to lose both your hands!"  
  
The man gets up, wobbling and furious.  "I'll brag 'bout more'n that, you bitch…!"  He stumbles toward the innkeeper, but finds her knife perilously close to piercing his gut.    
  
In his rage, he grabs both it and her, and she trips on her skirts, sending them both tumbling to the floor.  "Get off me!  Get off!!"  she screams — at least, she thinks she's screaming, though she's not really managing more than a squeak — as his hands come down on her wrists, pushing both knife and skewer away.  
  
After smacking the innkeeper's head on the tiled floor several times to subdue her and slugging her across the face, he tears open her smock, bodice, and chemise to reveal her naked breasts.  He squeezes and gnaws and sucks, so hard that her nipples are darkly bruised;  and, after leaving a trail of slobber across her chest, he turns his attention to his real target, hiking her skirts up to her hips to reveal her stockinged legs and the private place that only one man should ever see.  "Oh yes, m' pretty,"  he says, pushing her thighs apart so he can cram two thick fingers far up inside her, grinding a heavy, calloused thumb over her tender pearl, his broken nails slicing the flesh both inside and out, before he leans down to spit on her and slick her up.  "Oh yes, let's get ye nice an' wet so's we can have a good fuck…"  
  
She's barely half-conscious and, save for her assailant's saliva, she's dry as a desert island when he gives up and decides it doesn't matter what condition she's in;  that he just wants to get inside her as fast as possible.    
  
At the feel of him entering her and after a hundred and more deep, painful thrusts that open wider the cuts he's inflicted and scrape the rest of her abused inner flesh to bleeding, the groggy innkeeper somehow recovers her wits and her voice, and the sound of her insane screeching brings the inn's next guest running:  Hector Barbossa, in fear of what's happened to his beloved.  "What th' fuckin' blazes?"  he bellows, following the source of the noise and tearing into the kitchen, to find the innkeeper weakly trying to kick and get out from under a strange grunting man with his breeches down and his prick where it clearly doesn't belong.  "What be this?!"  
  
"Get this disgusting bastard off me, Hector!"  she sobs, more frightened than he's ever seen her.  "Hector, please!!  Get him _out_ of me!!"  
  
The nearby skewer is put to good use as Barbossa jams it into the man's side, pulling him out of the innkeeper and toppling him to the floor;  there's a large quantity of blood on the man's cock and sandy hair that obviously belongs to her, and it almost has Barbossa pulling his sword and dispatching him right there, but he restrains himself for the time being and merely kicks his teeth in and breaks his jaw.  Then he goes to the innkeeper's aid, rearranging her torn dress to cover her, helping her to sit up.  "My God, Dove…!"  
  
Barbossa has seen the obvious actions, but there's a dozen things the man could have done before he got there, and in his distress and anger, he doesn't think to make his questions diplomatic.  "Listen t' me: sweet:  did ye feel his hands?  His mouth?  Did he dare put his filthy tongue anywhere on ye?"  He swallows, for this is almost the hardest question of all to ask.  "Did he try t' kiss ye?"  
  
Everything between the innkeeper's legs feels like it's aflame, she's been torn and pummeled on the inside and is sitting in a pool of blood, her breasts have been mauled, there's a terrible taste in her mouth from the stranger's tongue having been shoved in it, she's nauseated, and out of both pain and shame, she can't think straight.  "I… I… yes… maybe… yes… I don't remember!"  _I don't want to remember!_  
  
_Look how panicked she is;  of course she ain't sure of nothin'.  But I know what I saw, an' that's enough._   "He were inside ye, though."  
  
It isn't a question, and the very thought of what she's just been through makes the innkeeper go a remarkably horrid shade of greyish-green.  "I'm sorry, Hector,"  she whimpers, the tears flowing down her cheeks.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry.  I'm sorry…"  Then she chokes, scrambles on her hands and knees toward the back door, and hunches there, retching — the thought comes that the bile tastes better than the stranger's mouth and almost makes her want to dissolve into hysterical laughter — as she wills the whole of the terrible afternoon to go away.  
  
"Naught t' be sorry for, Dove,"  Barbossa whispers as he watches her gag and cry, and though he wants so much to go to her, he doesn't yet, out of regard for her sensibilities.  "Ye've always held faith wi' me an' I've no cause t' think 'twere diff'rent now, 'specially not with such a swine as this."  His ruddy face is stark white with a greater wrath than he's ever felt in his life, but it isn't at her;  never at her.  "Ye laid hands on m' woman,"  he says, looking down at the innkeeper's attacker, and his quiet growl is even more frightening than when he shouts.  "Ye _dared_ rape m' woman."  He doesn't wait for any sort of answer, but leans down and shoves the skewer even further into the man's side before taking him by the back of the shirt, dragging him out the back door past the innkeeper, and from there, around to the front of the house and out onto the road.  "Ye sullied her virtue an' took what should be only betwixt her an' me!  Now, let's see what ye're gonna lose…"  
  
Kicking the man twice in the gut, then twice more in the temple to make sure he's stunned into immobility but still awake and aware, Barbossa grabs his right hand and sniffs at the fingers, finding a familiar sweet-salt scent that shouldn't be there, and the metallic blood he can both smell and see makes his gorge rise all over again;  blood different from that when the innkeeper gets her courses.  _You despicable fuck!_   the streaks of red tell him.  _Ye cut m' Dove inside where she's most tender an' made her bleed.  Now you'll bleed, ye fuckin' piece of pigshite…_  
  
Barbossa looms over him, his blue eyes gone flat black with fury, then pulls his knife, kneels, and cuts the man's lips off and his tongue out piece by piece, then his nose and his ears, before neatly severing all of his fingers;  then he rises to his feet, taking a step back to watch him gurgle and scream.  "Nay, not good enough,"  he decides.  "For what ye done, ye ain't keepin' yer hands, but mind, ye won't be losin' 'em easy, neither."  His sword flashes down, mid-palm;  again, at the wrists;  again, mid-forearms, elbows, biceps;  hacks again and again at the legs that carried the man up to the inn to perpetrate his dastardly act;  then he kicks him repeatedly in the groin, stomping down hard to crush the offending organ into a flat piece of useless meat.  "Hope it were worth it, ye fuckin' bastard!"  Barbossa barks before severing what's left of his balls — slowly, slitting the sac open, peeling it back, and removing each testicle in quarters — followed by carving his cock off in a dozen slices, relishing the man's howls after every cut, after which he tosses all the useless flesh into the weeds.  "That be what ye get for layin' yer fuckin' hands on Hector Barbossa's woman;  for thinkin' ye could just shove yer filthy langer inside her;  for treatin' her worse'n a whore!"  His outrage has taken him over and he can barely catch his breath.  "That be for hurtin' such a sweet an' innocent Dove!!"  
  
One last kick sends his half-dead victim rolling through the brush and down the hill, leaving spurting trails of blood behind him.  With a little luck, the rats and other vermin will find him and have a feast before he finally loses consciousness and dies.  
  
As Barbossa stands there, shaking, willing his anger to abate so that his touch and his words may be gentle with the innkeeper, a long-buried memory comes roaring back:  of two burly officers who took rather too much of a liking to the ship's skinny, auburn-haired cabin boy, and they wouldn't take 'no' for an answer.  What they'd done to him as they bent him over their cabin table and yanked down his breeches had hurt worse than he could have imagined;  he could barely walk afterwards, certainly couldn't sit down, and he'd bled for days.  
  
He'd also committed his first pair of murders one week later when he revenged himself by spiking their dinner with quantities of ground glass.  It had been hard to hide his smile of satisfaction when he heard of the agony in which they'd died.      
  
Going back inside, he finds the innkeeper curled up on her side, weeping in misery.  "Ye're safe now, sweet,"  he says softly, gathering her up in his arms and carrying her upstairs to their room, forcing himself to hold back tears at the bloodied mess the man made of her face.  "He ain't gonna hurt ye, or no woman, e'er again."  
  
"Sorry,"  she cries, her blackened eyes squeezed tight.  "Sorry.  Sorry.  Sorry!"  
  
"Oh, Dove… Dove… weren't yer fault,"  Barbossa murmurs, rocking her.  "Not yer fault.  Not yer fault."  But there's one question he still has to ask, though it pains him and will disgust her.  "Now listen, an' if ye know, please answer…"  The innkeeper is shuddering, so he holds her tighter, inhaling sharply, willing himself to speak the distasteful words.  "D' ye know…"  _Hellfire an' damnation, how shall I ask of her such a thing?!_   "Sweet, ye must tell me… were he atop ye long enough t' spend hisself inside ye?"  
  
The innkeeper cries out with a sound he's never heard before — an animal sound of anguish, horror, and unspeakable outrage at what he's suggesting — and Barbossa knows she isn't sure, so he'll have to inflict upon her one last indignity, and it makes him almost as sick as it makes her.  "Lie back, darlin',"  he says as soothingly as he can.  "Lie back, stay still, an' let me look.  I'll make it quick."  
  
Skimming her skirts up over her legs and settling them at her waist, Barbossa hisses as he examines her injuries as far as he can ascertain them:  there's a lot of blood on her abraded thighs, in her curls, and still seeping from between the soft, bruised lips — even worse, her pearl and the delicate skin around it are badly nicked and scraped raw — but thankfully, there's no drip or other sign of the telltale white there might have been, so she'll be spared any fear that she might bear the child of the brute who raped her.  "No,"  he says, covering her up again.  "Ye'll be all right, Dove.  He hurt ye bad, true, but ye may rest easy that at least he left none of his seed behind."  
  
The innkeeper looks up with dark eyes that don't see him, before she begins to scream, and scream, and scream.  
  
Barbossa moves back, shocked and dismayed, because her reaction has just put him in mind of something that happened when he was 20, and that he's tried very hard to forget:  the one and only time he ever raped a woman.  He'd turned pirate by that time, and his crewmates had gone on about the raptures of being able to take any women they wanted, so of course, he was game for it, but the reality had proved very different than he'd been told.  Fighting against men was a thrill he couldn't get enough of;  fucking an unwilling, terrified, sobbing woman was something else entirely.  It was like pounding his cock into coarse dry sand and the woman had bled all over him;  it had unnerved him at the time, but as he remembers it now, he's doubly sickened;  having seen at close range the damage done to the innkeeper's delicate private parts, having heard her anguished cries, and having seen the disgust on her face and the sickness that overtook her, he truly understands the horror of what he did.  
  
The poor innkeeper's voice is growing rough, but she keeps trying to scream even so.  "Hisht now, Dove,"  Barbossa purrs, drawing the quilt tightly around her.  "Hisht, m' sweet.  Shhh… Shhh…"  He struggles for something, anything to do for her.  "Now, how's about I'll bring ye water for a bath?  'Twill be soothin' t' body an' mind."  
  
He thinks, but doesn't say, that washing away the stink of the stranger is the very first thing they both desperately want.  
  
He's halfway to filling the tub when Cora returns, and with her, one of the lodgers.  "Where'n th' fuckin' hell were you?"  he hollers, backhanding her across the face.  
  
Cora stares dumbly at him, but the lodger begins to frown.  
  
Barbossa cuts him off before he can say a word.  "You:  get out!  Ye've no bill t' pay, so get yerself out;  we're closed!"  
  
"Hey!"  Cora's mouth drops open as she watches the lodger leave.  "You can't do that…"  
  
"I can, ye stupid wench!  An' anyone else ye got lodgin' here:  when they come back, out they go!  Ye're closed for business 'til I say otherwise!"  
  
The wails and screams from upstairs are just beginning to come to Cora's attention.  "What's th' Missus howling about?"  
  
The overwrought Barbossa finally snaps and flings Cora against the wall.  "Listen, ye little bitch:  yer Mistress were dishonored an' sore hurt while ye were off gallivantin' th'-fuck-knows-where!"  he shouts, stabbing his finger into her face.  "Ye'll be finding rottin' pieces of th' bastard on' th' hillside for a fair while yet, I daresay, but that don't make up for what were done t' her!  You laugh — you even _smile_ — an' I swear t' Christ I'll cut both yer tits off afore I take yer head!"  
  
Cora doesn't laugh.  She doesn't smile.  It isn't funny to Cora because, unbeknownst even to the innkeeper, she was raped when she was just 13 years old.  "I'm sorry, Cap'n, I didn't know,"  she says quietly.  "Th' Missus gave me th' afternoon off an' that's why I weren't here."  She pauses.  "Is there somethin' I may do t' help?"  
  
Barbossa backs off, though his chest is still heaving with suppressed anger.  "Ye may,"  he says after a moment.  "I been tryin' t' make her up a bath;  a good hot one…"  
  
"Right, Cap'n.  I'll haul more water an' heat it up."  
  
"Good,  an' bring more soap, too;  th' castile, not th' lye.  An' I want ye t' burn th' clothes she were wearin', too.  Gown, cap, smallclothes;  all of 'em!"  
  
"Yessir."  
  
Cora's shocked but not surprised when she finds her mistress sitting on the floor sobbing her heart out, already naked and wrapped in a sheet, her bloodied clothing at the foot of the bed in a pile.  "Oh, Missus, I didn't know, I didn't know,"  she says, far more kindly than is her usual wont.  "D' ye want me t' give you yer bath, then?  'Course ye do.  Come on, now."  She leads the trembling innkeeper first to the washstand, where she assists her in scrubbing her mouth out with salt and burnt alum, then takes her to the tub and helps her step in, though she makes no move to remove the sheet.  
  
Barbossa feels like he should leave the room, but he can't;  not when he's afraid the innkeeper may be endangered again if he's not there.  But instead of taking an active part in bathing her as he might like to do, he hangs back, sitting on the edge of the bed, keeping quiet watch over her, and it's only when Cora nods to him to bring a dry sheet that he approaches and takes the innkeeper into his arms.  "Ye're safe now, Dove,"  he whispers, wrapping the cloth around her.  "Safe.  I won't leave ye… but listen t' me, darlin':  I won't touch ye, neither;  not 'til yer wounds be healed, an' even then not 'til ye tell me ye've lost yer fear an' have only desire, for I'd not want ye t' cry in fright as ye lie wi' me."  
  
And he means it.  Plans will have to be changed — he was only supposed to be in port for a few days, but that's gone by the boards — but it makes no matter when plans in his life are always fluid.  Another week, another month… the men won't care a bit, as this is one of their favorite ports, and the longer the time they can spend in it, drinking and whoring and eating food that hasn't gone rotten, the happier they'll be.  But what's important to Barbossa is to stay until the innkeeper is restored to physical health and the fear that's eating her up begins to recede.  It will mean tears and nightmares and perhaps things that work hard on a woman that he cannot yet fathom, and he's afraid he might not be up to the task, but still, he'll try his very best.  He wishes there was some really satisfying act of vengeance he might mete out upon a world so cruel that it should terrorize a gentle innkeeper into dreading to give herself to the man she loves, but her needs are the important ones now, not his, and he wants her to know that.  
  
"Ye're safe now, m' brave Dove,"  Barbossa repeats, his voice low and rough and as calming as he can make it, and he can feel the innkeeper start to relax just a little as she breathes him in;  is happy to know his distinctive musky scent is a comfort to her.  "Whate'er ye want, whate'er ye need, just ask an' ye shall have it.  So come lie down now an' try t' sleep.  Ye're safe, now.  Ye're safe."  
  
_An' ye'll always be safe wi' me._

 

 

  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-  
 


End file.
